Stephen Booth - The Devil’s Edge

‘And no street lights out here,’ he said.

‘Obviously.’

Fry looked at the city DCI, irritated to find herself having to explain the obvious facts about the countryside. No, there are no street lights. Yes, if you’ve noticed, there are fields, and cows and sheep. It’s a farm. What a surprise.

Mackenzie tilted his head slightly to one side to look at her.

‘We have to get this one right,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you know that, DS Fry. Our task is to balance the requirements of justice and the rights of the individual. It’s going to be a fine line we’re walking together.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Fry, regretting how stiff she sounded.

He nodded. ‘All right, then.’

‘The National Farmers’ Union say that people living in isolated rural properties face particular problems when it comes to crime.’

Mackenzie smiled. ‘You might want to try telling that to people on my patch in the city.’

‘It’s true, though. All those CCTV cameras have been having an effect on crime prevention and prosecution rates in the towns and cities. Thieves are looking at rural areas for softer targets. Well-planned and opportunist thefts are increasing.’

‘I’ve seen the statistics.’

Fry gestured at the farmhouse. ‘If you live in a place like this, in the countryside, you have to be aware that you’re a potential target. Especially if there are portable things like power tools and generators lying around in outbuildings.’

Within the past few months, E Division had taken part in Operation Solstice, aimed at tackling the theft of high-end four-wheel-drive vehicles from farm premises. A total of twenty Land Rover Defenders alone had been reported stolen in the High Peak and the Derbyshire dales in the first six months of the year. A professional gang had been stealing the vehicles to order, with willing foreign purchasers just waiting for delivery.

Some of this stuff was big business. Organised crime. Not just the kind of petty theft that officers from D Division might imagine.

‘These farmers, they have some kind of Neighbourhood Watch scheme, don’t they?’ said Mackenzie.

‘Farm Watch.’

‘That’s it. Still, this isn’t about crime prevention, not any more. We’re dealing with a point of law here. Did you happen to read that up while you were looking through the reports?’

Fry bristled at the insinuation that she wasn’t familiar with the law.

‘The Criminal Law Act 1967 provides that a person may use such force as is reasonable in the circumstances in the prevention of crime,’ she said.

‘Almost word perfect. But it’s up to the courts to decide what can be considered reasonable force. Not us. Right?’

She didn’t reply, and Mackenzie looked at her sharply.

‘Right?’

‘Of course, sir.’

Fry knew that the Court of Appeal had set precedents that governed the modern law on belief: A person may use such force as is reasonable in the circumstances as he believes them to be. To gain an acquittal, the defendant must have believed, rightly or wrongly, that an attack was imminent. A man about to be attacked didn’t have to wait for his assailant to strike the first blow or fire the first shot. Circumstances might justify a preemptive strike. Even if you sought out the confrontation that provoked the aggression. The crucial factor was that you were defending yourself.

But in this case, the victim had been shot in the back. An open-and-shut case? Or was it more complicated than that?

‘And then we have the IP,’ said Mackenzie.

‘The injured party is Graham Smith, from Chesterfield. Previous convictions for burglary and theft.’

‘We got a call from the hospital a few minutes ago. I’m told Mr Smith has just come out of theatre from five hours of surgery to have pellets removed.’

‘He hasn’t been interviewed yet,’ said Fry.

‘No, but FOAs spoke to his son, who was with him at the time.’

‘Craig Smith, aged seventeen. He has a slight leg wound, but is otherwise uninjured.’

Mackenzie nodded. ‘Craig claims that he and his father were hunting rabbits on the farm.’

‘They didn’t have guns with them, did they?’

‘No.’

‘Or dogs?’

‘No.’

‘They weren’t hunting rabbits, then.’

‘You sound very sure of that, DS Fry.’

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’

Mackenzie smiled. ‘Let’s see what the evidence tells us, shall we?’

Although there was a suspect in custody and not much doubt about his involvement, the standard forensic procedures were being put into place. Shotgun pellets were being collected, tweezered out of wooden fence posts where necessary. Unburned powder was being sought, so that chemical analysis could indicate the manufacturer of the ammunition and possibly match the box of shells found in the gun cabinet in the farmhouse.

Scenes-of-crime had already observed from an initial examination that there were no discarded cartridge cases, nor any sign of a wad, the plastic insert that sat on top of the powder charge and contained the lead pellets. The wad was fired from the gun and cushioned the pellets as they went up the barrel, keeping them in a tight, uniform mass until they left the muzzle. As the shot pattern expanded, the wad peeled back and fell to the ground.

‘Our ballistics expert says the wad usually falls within a radius of fifteen to twenty-five feet of the muzzle,’ said Mackenzie, surveying the farmyard. ‘So the discovery of a wad would have given a general indication of the position of the shooter. If a shooter isn’t familiar with shotgun shells, they might pick up a discarded shell casing but not realise they should also look for the wad.’

He looked at Fry for a response.

‘Yes?’

‘It seems this shooter has left neither.’

Fry didn’t bother to point out that some of the ballistics information was unnecessary. It wasn’t the first incident she’d dealt with involving the use of a shotgun. She knew that spent plastic casings were printed with the name of the manufacturer, along with details of pellet size and load, powder charge and gauge. Also, when a firing pin hit the metal primer to detonate a charge, the impression it left was unique. It could be used to identify the specific weapon, like matching a fingerprint.

All of this scouring for evidence at the scene might seem unnecessary in the circumstances. But nothing would be missed in this case. Every t would be crossed, every forensic detail covered.

Fry looked round. At least Ben Cooper had gone. Someone had finally managed to persuade him to leave. That was a relief. Cooper had the irritating habit of seeing a good side in everyone. It was a weakness when you were part of the criminal justice system. In this situation, it was a positive liability.

Ben Cooper had showered, shaved and changed at his flat in Edendale. He fed the cat, took two paracetamols, and drank three cups of coffee. It didn’t make him feel much better.

When he climbed into his car, he looked slowly around Welbeck Street for a few minutes before turning the ignition key. He still felt dazed, and strangely detached from reality. The feeling was a bit like waking up with a hangover. His head ached and his thoughts were fuzzy. He couldn’t quite be sure whether what he’d been doing last night was real, or part of some awful nightmare.

His car radio was tuned to Peak FM. When he switched it on, he was just in time to hear the local news bulletin.

A man is under arrest after two people suffered shotgun wounds at isolated farm premises near Edendale.

The incident happened at just after midnight today. A forty-two-year-old man and a seventeen-year-old youth received injuries and both were taken to hospital. The youth was discharged after treatment to a leg wound, but the man is detained with injuries to his back and shoulder.